


Hark the Herald Reptiles Sing

by Bow



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bow/pseuds/Bow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clyde gets into the holiday spirit, Joan receives a letter from Moriarty, and Sherlock moonlights as an art critic.</p><p>Implied spoilers for the end of Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hark the Herald Reptiles Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beardsley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/gifts).



Joan comes downstairs to find Sherlock kneeling by the fireplace, bent over the partial skeleton of what might be a small mammal.

"So I got a letter today," she begins, and he lifts his head only to shake it.

"I must beg you, Watson, to spare me the particulars. As you can see, I'm occupied at the moment, and I've absolutely no curiosity about the billets doux you've been exchanging with my fat brother."

"I have not been exchanging, as you so charmingly put it, _billets doux_. With anyone! And what on earth have you done to Clyde?"

Sherlock glances at Clyde, diligently propelling himself about the periphery of the room, and frowns at Joan. "Could it be that you don't recognize the distinctive foliage of _Abies fraseri_ , commonly known as the Fraser fir?"

"Well, no, I can't say that I identified the exact species of tree. But my actual question is why someone, presumably you, has glued Christmas tree clippings to the shell of our pet tortoise."

"Not glued! Merely affixed," returns Sherlock. "And here's a little known fact about tortoises: more often than not, they genuinely enjoy getting into the Christmas spirit." His focus shifts back to the pile of bones on the floor beside him. "Now, if you would excuse me, I have a skeleton to reassemble."

"Not yet you don't. I have to tell you about my letter first. Hey, look at me, not at your mouse bones! Unless you'd rather I throw something at you to capture your attention."

"No, Watson—I feel quite safe from your depredations at present. The only daunting projectile within your reach is Clyde. And we both know you've grown far too attached to him to consider lobbing him at my head."

"Under no circumstances should Clyde be classified as a projectile!"

"There. You've proved my point quite neatly."

"Ahem," says Joan, crossing her arms. She taps her foot until Sherlock looks up again.

"All right, then, if we really must," he grumbles, at last sitting up straight. "I can see it's important to you. Out with it, then: you've had a letter from _her_ , haven't you?"

"I have," says Joan. "But how—?"

"Oh, who else is likely to send you a missive that causes you to pussyfoot tenderly about me, all the while insisting that you must divulge its contents to me?"

"I get mail! I have friends! It could have been...an especially complicated Christmas card."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in lieu of a reply. His head swivels gently toward the mantle, where Joan has arranged several innocuous greeting cards featuring the fat, smiling babies of her acquaintances.

He clears his throat and continues. "I'm curious, which tactic did Moriarty take with you? My money's on the feminine mystique angle, the classic 'oh, Watson, you fascinating creature—you intrigue me, I intrigue you, if I weren't stuck in Supermax I'd be halfway to your bed by now' gambit."

"Uh, not exactly," says Joan, taking the letter from her pocket and unfolding it.

"I wonder, could I ever convince you to visit me?" Joan reads from the page. "Do consider it. The facilities are, admittedly, lacking in creature comforts, but there would be the substantial advantage of my company. I underestimated you once, to my regret. Now I'd like to gain a better understanding of your talents. I feel certain that I've something to offer you in return."

Joan bends to offer Sherlock the letter. "And there's a drawing on the back."

The sketch shows a thin young woman—maybe sixteen—with a long face and a beseeching expression.

"Might you know the individual pictured here? Is this meant to be a threat?"

"No," says Joan, "she doesn't look familiar. And I don't think it's a threat, exactly. I think it's a clue."

"Of course," says Sherlock with a sneer. "A tempting little morsel she can dangle in front of your nose to entice you into visiting her, in hopes of gaining further information."

"That was my interpretation, anyway. So what do you think? My gut reaction is that I shouldn't consider it. I mean, she's a psychopath—odds are this isn't even a real person."

"And yet," says Sherlock, peering into the face in the drawing. He touches his finger to one of her anxious-looking eyes. "What if?"

"I know." She rubs her eyes. "Well, let's see how far we can get without her help. We can go down to the station this afternoon and review some missing persons files. It's not much to go on, but maybe it will knock something loose."

***

They spend the rest of the day at the station, and while Sherlock posits a plausible theory regarding the whereabouts of two teenage runaways, the mystery woman's face can't be found among the photographs.

When they return to the brownstone, Sherlock parks himself on the sofa with his laptop and plans to trawl through relevant news articles from the past couple years. 

"Tomorrow is another day, Watson," he says as Joan heads upstairs for the night.

Joan sleeps fitfully for a couple hours before she realizes that someone is watching her. Somehow Moriarty has conjured a rocking chair from Joan's childhood bedroom, and she perches on it, cross-legged and smiling.

"So, Watson," she begins, and the smile disappears from her eyes. "What did Sherlock say when you told him you were coming to see me?"

Joan leans forward, gathering the bedclothes in a fist. "I'm not here to talk about Sherlock."

"Suit yourself, then," says Moriarty, smirking slightly. "Sherlock doesn't interest me any longer. But you do, for the present."

"What can you tell me about the woman in the picture? Who is she?"

"Do be patient, Watson. You can't imagine I'd tell you everything in exchange for nothing. You enjoy a good riddle, don't you?"

"I like solving one."

"And I like being one." Moriarty smiles again. "You see, in essentials we are not so very different. I believe it comes from—your _previous_ life," she says smugly. "There's a kind of affinity between a _good_ surgeon and a talented painter. You grow accustomed to looking inside of people, to seeing on levels that normal people can't reach. Pulling bodies to pieces."

"Some of us do our best to reassemble them," says Joan, and the next time she blinks, a different woman is seated in front of her.

Moriarty's smirk looks out of place on the lips of the woman from the drawing. "Your eyes," she says lazily. Her voice is the same. "They're awfully watchful. I would have liked to have painted you from life."

Joan sits up in bed. It's almost three. She races downstairs, still breathing hard, and Sherlock blinks up at her from his laptop.

"I know who's in the drawing." 

***

Joan sits down beside Sherlock. "I'm sure you've heard about the Emily Kahler disappearance, in the late 70s?"

"Yes, of course. One of the classic unsolved cases from the bad old days. Disappeared from her mother's apartment in Riverdale while the boyfriend was supposedly watching her—eighteen months old, I believe, in 1979. No suspects, no witnesses, no body ever discovered."

"Exactly." Joan reaches over Sherlock to do a quick search on Google Images. "She was so young when she disappeared, and she doesn't look very much like her composite sketches. That's why we didn't recognize her at first. But take a look at her bone structure. If you compare her cheekbones and her chin, you'll see—"

"—that this is Emily," he whispers, holding Moriarty's drawing up next to the screen.

***

Captain Gregson reopens the Kahler file, long gone cold, and releases the new sketch to the public. The hotline gets two good tips within a week: it seems Emily is now a housewife in the suburbs outside Philadelphia. Her name is Judith Hendricks and she remembers nothing.

In the days after Emily is located, answers begin to settle into place: she was taken from her crib by an associate of her mother's boyfriend and sold to a criminal ring that collaborated with a crooked adoption agency. They placed Emily with a wealthy couple in exchange for a fee. 

When the news breaks, Emily's adoptive parents surround themselves with lawyers. The former head of the agency is nearly eighty now, and the police trace him to a squat brick building on a tired industrial block, just beyond the gentrified edge of Brooklyn. He confesses, in tears, and is taken away in handcuffs.

Joan sits down on the concrete stoop of a dry cleaner's and rests her head in her hands. "Ugly story."

"True," says Sherlock, "though it ended better than most. She's had a decent life. Maybe even better than the one she'd have had, had she not been the victim of a heinous crime."

For several minutes, neither of them speaks.

"These in-between neighborhoods are always so quiet in the afternoon," Sherlock says at last. He glances in the direction of the old Williamsburgh Savings Bank building. "Five years from now, you won't be able to swing a dead cat in Gowanus without hitting a condominium."

"It's my general rule of thumb," says Joan slowly, "never to swing a dead cat in any direction, in any place, at any time."

"Oh, never say never." Sherlock presses his lips together. "There is an excellent patisserie on Third Avenue," he says, "for those who care about such things."

He bends forward to help Joan to her feet, and they walk there together in the cold.

***

A few nights later, Joan is climbing the front steps when something crunches underfoot. It's a piece of white cardstock, rolled up in a rubber band.

Stepping into the entryway, she unrolls it carefully. On one side, written small in the upper lefthand corner, is a short note. "Congratulations," it reads. "My invitation still stands." 

On the other side is a charcoal drawing of Joan. It is signed with an initial. 

"Ghastly thing," says Sherlock, assessing the picture with a shudder. "Does not match our décor in the slightest."

"Hey!" says Joan. "That's my face you're talking about." 

"Vanity fair! Are you not alarmed by the lack of verisimilitude? You look bloody terrifying."

It's not the most flattering portrayal, Joan agrees, but she is privately pleased at the strength conveyed in the eyes and in the jaw, at Moriarty's admission that Joan Watson is a force to be reckoned with.

Over the course of working with Sherlock, Joan has learned to interpret some very odd experiences as compliments.

"I suppose the light inside a prison cell can't be very good," she says politely. "But doesn't it seem like a _bit_ of a security breach that Moriarty was able to execute a three-foot tall portrait of me, arrange to smuggle it out of prison, and have it delivered to our doorstep? A letter is one thing, but really."

"Troubling," admits Sherlock, "but not altogether surprising, for someone with her connections. Let us turn our attention to that particular lapse in security shortly. But first, the question of the hour: whatever shall you do with this monstrosity?"

Joan shrugs. "I guess just roll it up again and shove it in the basement. After all, this may be the only time I'm ever drawn in charcoal by a criminal mastermind."

"Indeed. A dubious honor, but an honor nonetheless. Oh, one more laurel for you: I have conferred with Clyde, and in celebration of your victory, he has agreed that we ought not awaken you tomorrow morning before, say, the ripe old hour of half past seven."

"Surprisingly reasonable of him."

"That's Christmas for you, Watson. Peace on earth, no partridge without its pear tree."

"It's a yuletide miracle," agrees Joan. "Hark the herald reptiles sing."


End file.
